


Good Day To

by Chelle1117



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelle1117/pseuds/Chelle1117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The culmination of a life. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Day To

John was stretched out on the sofa, black t-shirt loose around his shoulders, just a little snug around his torso, because that freakish metabolism had finally slowed once he hit his mid-fifties, and that had been a decade ago. His sweat pants, the ones he'd had since forever—or at least since Atlantis had been declassified and marketing campaigns all over the world had started using the constellation glyphs as designer labels—had been pulled low down on his waist by friction with the micro-suede John had sworn would be easy to clean. The latest in a long line of graphic novels lay open on his chest, the spine marked with a crack of white that showed how little respect John Sheppard had for keeping printed materials pristine and neat.

His eyes were closed, a peaceful expression on his sunburned face. One hand lay just beneath the book, like it had dropped there on its way to his side. The other hung loosely over the edge of the cushion. His feet were bare, crossed at the ankles, relaxed and at ease.

Rodney walked over to the sofa and knelt between it and the coffee table John had insisted they needed. Cherry top with a black bottom, mission style. On the bottom shelf, they kept Rodney's journals, John's comics, and the game consoles. The surface, they kept fairly clutter-free. Rodney ran his hand over the pocked and stained patina of the wood. Each divot in the surface had a memory, an emotion. He traced his thumb along the side, and felt the sharp edge that he'd knocked off when he and John had fought about Rodney's retirement. Rodney had said no, there was no way that age and infirmity were going to keep him from his research or his Nobel. He could handle the stress, he'd said, and John would just have to deal with it. He'd been resting his feet on its edge, and the fight had escalated, and when he had pulled his shoes off the edge, one long sliver of wood broke off with them.

Rodney had been mortified, but John had just looked at him, eyebrow raised and said, "I rest my case, McKay."

And Rodney had signed the papers halving his hours at the mountain and had given his least favorite projects to scientists he could almost trust not to totally and singlehandedly set his research back decades. That had been seven years ago.

There were the places worn smooth by their socked feet, propped on the edge as they watched movies, side by side, touching along the entire length of their bodies until one of them leaned over and kissed the other's hairline. There were scratches and dings where John had dropped gun parts or bullets as he maintained all his weapons. And in the center, in a flat glass-topped case, was a letter from the president thanking John for exemplary service to his country and all of John's military medals - his clover leaf, his wings, his stars.

Rodney clasped John's loosely hanging hand in one of his, and let his other trail over John's passive, resting face.

*****

"Dr. McKay, there's a call for you on line three," Deni said. "I believe it's your husband."

"Oh please," Rodney groused, "I hope you don't call him that to his face, I'll never hear the end of it."

Deni laughed. "Don't worry, doctor. We just say those sorts of things to you."

"Oh, very funny. I'm so happy you choose me on whom to inflict your particular brand of insolence." Rodney sighed. "I don't suppose he said what he wanted."

"No, sir. Only that he needed to speak to you."

"Yes, of course he does," Rodney said, eyes rolling so hard he nearly made himself dizzy, but he was already stripping out of his lab coat and exiting the research lab. When he got to the desk, he picked up the phone and viciously punched the three. "What?"

"Hey McKay," John said, and Rodney thought he sounded tired. "You mind picking up something to eat on your way home?"

Rodney frowned. "I thought you were going to grill steaks?"

"Well," John said, drawing out the word, "I was. But I think I overdid it at the beach. I'm beat."

"Are you all right? You sound sick. Maybe you should go lie down or something. And what were you doing at the beach? Don't even tell me you were surfing! Remember what your doctor said! You know how much stock I put in what those quacks say, but when they're talking about you, you need to listen! We still don't know how the Wraith enzyme worked! Who knows what invisible, long term damage it could have done!"

John chuckled. "You worry too much. I'm fine, Rodney. I'm just old, and I'm tired. And I'm a little pissed that an hour of surfing has me laid out for the evening."

"It shouldn't surprise you. That damn thing is a death trap! I'm shocked that it hasn't killed you yet." It was a common comment, an ages old argument that Rodney had conceded long ago - even if he did throw out the occasional barb.

He heard John's irritated sigh, then, "Rodney."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm...I'm sorry." He said, contrite. "Okay, well. Rest up, I'm heading out now. I'll swing by and get something." He paused. "Love you."

There was a heavy breath, and John said, sounding even more tired from the few minutes he'd been on the phone, "I know, McKay. Me too. I'll see you when you get here."

*****

There were no lights on in the windows when he pulled up the drive and into the garage.

Rodney killed the engine and grabbed the to-go bags from the passenger seat. He set the food on the counter and pulled down some plates from the cabinet and silverware from the drawer.

"I know, I know," he called out, speaking to John in the living room, "we usually do the paper plate thing and all that, but I feel like eating off real plates tonight. I _promise_ I'll do the clean up."

He dished out John's serving, bird-sized, as it had been as long as Rodney had known him. John never ate a full portion at regular meal times. Instead, he ate five or six times a day, little bits, just enough to keep energized. "Hey!" Rodney called out again, "You coming? There's some General Tso's chicken here, I know you like it spicy! I even told them to throw in some extra peppers. Should burn the hair right out of your nose when you eat it!"

He dished up his own serving. "John?" he called again, when the silence continued.

He put the serving spoon down and wiped his hands on one of the napkins from the bag, then made his way into the living room. "Hey! I'm home!" Rodney called into the quiet darkness. "I brought dinner. John?"

His eyes fell on the couch.

*****

His hand was only warm.

Rodney brushed gnarled and arthritic fingers over John's cheek.

His long, thick black lashes didn't twitch. His lips didn't pull up into a smile.

Rodney closed his eyes and let his mouth - dry lips chapped by the constant worrying of his teeth as he concentrated on whatever equation or problem he was tackling at the lab — land softly on John's. They tasted of salt water and sea air. They grew colder, softer, too pliant under Rodney's kiss. Rodney pulled back, looked at his lover, his partner, his best friend.

John wasn't there.

Rodney sighed and felt the thick press of grief in his chest. He leaned forward, rested his forehead against John's. His eyes burned as they welled up. He tried to blink the moisture away, but it spilled out anyway, unheeded. He sucked in another breath, stuttering under the press of desolation.

"John," he whispered.

End

**Author's Note:**

> written for [McSmooch](http://mcsmooch.livejournal.com) October 2009 round.


End file.
